


Please Tell Me Who I Am

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: Ash and Glass [1]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: BAMF Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Multi, Switches back and forth between present story and other past ones, Time Shenanigans, for real this time, no beta we die like my appreciation of sjm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: A rewrite of Throne of Glass where Celaena doesn’t know that she is Aelin, but most others do.
Relationships: Dorian Havilliard/Chaol Westfall, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Ash and Glass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888129
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue, 1453

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know about you, but I really, really hated the Throne of Glass ending and as I’ve reread the entire series, I’ve found more and more flaws in it and I wanted to do better. So, I’m attempting to rewrite the entire series, from Throne of Glass to Kingdom of Ash.
> 
> Chapter count is my initial guess and may change as the story progresses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evalin and Aelin flee the Ruin of Terrasen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //tw for canonical character death and graphic depictions of violence
> 
> also i made up my own timeline for this, which *does not* match up to the same historical period irl. there will be a date at the top of each chapter so you can keep track of everything. in this chapter, aelin is 8yrs old.

The castle’s floors are beginning to become slick with blood. Evalin hears the shouts and cries of the enemies as they rampage through her home, the resounding swings of swords causing her to fear every moment. Her hands shake as she hurries the child through the passageway, glancing back over her shoulder at frequent intervals to check that she is not being followed.

Aelin does not cry, but her eyes are wide and terrified. She trips up, Evalin hustling her onwards. Poor girl — she must be confused, and weary from the running. They cannot stop, though.

Rhoe’s last words to her resound in her mind. _Keep our daughter safe,_ he’d said, brushing a tender thumb across her knuckles. _Now hurry. They will doubtless be looking for me first, and I could not let you see me die._

Although Evalin knows that it is a foolish hope, some part of her still thinks that there is a chance of Rhoe making it out alive. Surviving to find and reunite with her and Aelin again. 

Water drips onto her head, dampening her scalp. Evalin shivers momentarily, clutching at Aelin’s shoulders. She pushes onwards.

Cries from behind her make her blood run cold. They cannot find her, not yet. She must get Aelin to safety first.

Aelin seems to read her thoughts and begins to run, fine shows that are now doubtless dirtied slapping the ground. Evalin speeds up as much as she can, not wanting to exert too much energy that she cannot put up a fight. Her breath comes quicker, and she has to slow down, legs faltering in their progress. Aelin stops in her tracks, turning back with pleading eyes. There is light at the end of the passage, filtering through the grate, that illuminates her daughter, surrounding her like a halo.

“Mother—” Aelin starts, her voice small and pitiful. “Please. You have to come with me.”

“Go,” Evalin steps forward to cup Aelin’s cheek. She lifts her daughter’s eyes to meet hers, seeing the same Ashryver eyes that she does in the mirror. “Survive, and one day you will return to rebuild Terrasen and claim your birthright.”

“I can’t do it on my own.” Tears are beginning to well up in Aelin’s eyes now, turning them glassy. 

“And you won’t.” Evalin kneels down, her dress falling into the dirt. She strokes a piece of hair away from Aelin’s face and tucks it behind her ear. “At the end of the passage, outwards and to the left, there is a river. Climb out of the passage, kick off your shoes, and swim away from Orynth. Swim until you can’t go any further, then get out of the river. Run as far and as fast as you can. _Don’t look back._ ” She commands.

Aelin nods obediently, and Evalin smiles for what she knows is the last time. “Good. Now _run for your life._ ”

Aelin nods again, panic rising in her eyes, and turns to take off down the passage, her figure growing smaller within moments. Evalin lets herself cry, then, tears running down her cheeks and wetting her face. She cries for the possibilities that they had just lost. 

She’d wanted more children with Rhoe. She’d wanted to see the crown placed upon Aelin’s head. She’d wanted to die peacefully in her bed, Rhoe’s hand looped with hers, with the knowledge that everything would be fine after she had passed. Above all, she’d wanted more _time_. 

She can already hear her clock running out, though, the noises of rattling armour and steel toe-capped boots on the cobblestones of the passage like the noises of the hands counting down. Evalin musters herself, drawing the dagger that she had kept safe from her bodice. She grips the leather-wrapped handle firmly, knuckles white around it. Although she may not be able to run with Aelin, she will do her utmost to slow the pursuers down.

They may find Aelin’s discarded shoes on the riverbank, yet Evalin hopes that by that time Aelin will be too far gone for them to track down easily. She prays that Aelin will evade her pursuers long enough for her to find a safe refuge. She prays that one day Aelin will return to Terrasen and restore it to its former state.

She prays, and then she opens her eyes, squares her stance, and prepares to fight. 

The first man to round the corner, she despatches with a throw of her dagger towards him. It sticks in his stomach, in the gap in between the breastplate and hip armour. Slowly, a stream of blood drizzles out through the links of the mail, and the man drops to the floor.

Evalin runs to yank out her dagger, wresting it free from his body and raising it into the air as three men come into her sight. She swears, colourful language learned in bed, and runs for the first man, already aiming her dagger for the area beneath his left shoulder, where the mail gaps slightly. Evalin thrusts it inwards when she gets close enough to, piercing through the fabric of his undershirt and into the skin. She grabs the handle as he jerks away, attempts to pull it free. Her efforts are unsuccessful, and as the man falls she gives up and lunges for his scabbard, pulling his sword free.

She backs away, giving herself space to move. The weapon is heavier than she is used to in her hands, and she swings it awkwardly, following the defensive manoeuvres that Rhoe had taught her. The effort of holding the sword and moving it strains her muscles uncomfortably, but Evalin continues. 

“Fucking bitch,” one of the soldiers spits, drawing his own sword. He advances on her, bearing down with heavy sword movements with plenty of power behind them.

Evalin’s arms ache as she tries to meet him with her own blade, and so she abandons that tactic. She darts out of the sword’s reach, using her speed and reflexes to stay away from him.

The second joins in, battering her other side with quick, prodding thrusts. Evalin lets out a gasp as she stabs him back, the sword hitting his breastplate ineffectively. 

She will not lose yet. She _cannot_. Aelin depends on her.

With that thought, Evalin throws herself back into the battle, ducking away from a thrust and parrying with her own. She whirls away from a cut aimed at her arm, and meets the next with the flat of her blade. 

As she stares into her opponent’s eyes, grinding her teeth with effort, she slips her sword out from under the deadlock and, while the man is still processing, jabs him in the stomach. He groans in pain, sword arm faltering, and Evalin smiles grimly as she turns to face the second man. 

His eyes seem to be those of Hellas’s as she stares into them, promising her death and pain for eternity. “You will die for that,” he hisses, lips curling into a morbid smile.

Evalin, exerted from the fighting she had done and panting heavily through a barely-opened mouth, lifts her sword again, even though it pains the muscles of her arm badly. She stares into the eyes of her death, meeting them with a look of exhaustion and pain.

And she laughs in death’s face.

She has already won. By now Aelin is doubtless in the river, limbs paddling in the water, taking her away from Orynth and away from the Adarlan army. And with her, she carries the hopes and dreams of Terrasen’s people, keeping them stored in her heart and mind and body. She has the power to tear down the world and rebuild it again. 

So Evalin Ashryver stands up taller, lifts her chin high, and raises her sword to meet her enemy’s. And she smiles as she lunges forwards, a final burst of speed and power. For a moment there is no pain anymore, only strength as she wields the sword. Her movements are afforded a surety and mightiness by the hope filling her heart. 

Then her opponent bats one of her thrusts away, turning her sword away from a dangerous edge into a child’s toy. With his second motion, he knocks the sword out of her hand, and it skitters across the floor, far out of her reach.

Evalin backs away, knowing that her death advances towards her. She dares not close her eyes, yet she does not want to keep them open, either. Instead, she turns her side to the soldier, looking into the distance and the light that shines through the grate. Already Aelin is beyond that, far away from this place of death and destruction. 

When he moves to stab her, Evalin steps into it, the blade piercing through the fabric of her death and into skin. There is no pain as she reaches for the handle of the sword, withdraws it from the hand of the surprised soldier, and pulls it from her body. 

With that, she knows, she has sealed her death. Before, though, she steps towards the soldier and drives the blade into his stomach. As she pulls out the sword, blood begins to pour from the wound, and the means of her death looks stumped as he stares down. 

“Mala, guide her upon her path,” Evalin intones, closing her eyes and picturing her daughter in her mind. Bedraggled, wet to her skin, yet persevering despite everything. “Mala, protect her. And may the Lord of Light watch over us all.” 

With that, Evalin lifts the blade with the last of her strength, and stabs herself through the heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: i study history, yall, and stabbing ppl through the heart isn’t actually the best way to kill someone. instead, go for the stomach. it is more vulnerable than the chest, which is protected by the ribcage, and there’s a higher possibility that you will injure someone enough to kill them.
> 
> so... yeah.


	2. Chapter 1, 1463

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Chaol go to Endovier to find the assassin Celaena Sardothien, yet when they arrive they find more than they bargained for with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again thank you so much to that one guest!!!

The salt mines of Endovier are several miles away from the main town, and Dorian’s skin is moistened by sweat by the time that they reach the entrance. His black hair sticks to his forehead, shining in the sun. Chaol wipes his own brow, unused to the heat this far out in the mountains, feeling sweat come away with his palm. 

He dismounts, taking the reins of his horse in one hand and reaching to hold Dorian’s horse as the prince pulls his riding boots free from the stirrups and slides off in turn. Dorian wears a doublet, undone at the collar, with plain black breeches, utterly unsuited to mountainous rides and the heat that comes in the Month of Leara. 

“Tie the horses to one of the trees,” Dorian says, running his hands through his hair. Chaol finds several low-hanging branches, ties the horses’ reins to them, loosely enough that they can pull free in an emergency but tight enough that they cannot run off easily. He pats the flank of his horse as he passes, soothing it with touch. 

When he rejoins Dorian, the prince is staring into the mouth of the salt mine with a dark look on his face. The tunnel is wide and low, hewn into the rock centuries ago by chisel and pick axes. From inside, the sounds of metal blades against rock carries up to them. 

Chaol lifts his head and turns to Dorian. “You sent a message ahead?”

Dorian is frowning, still looking down into the mines. “I did, but I don’t know whether the overseer got it.”

Sighing, Chaol crosses his arms over his chest. “No sense waiting out here on our asses for ages. Come on, Prince Dorian.” He extends a hand, which Dorian takes, and Chaol tries to hide his smile at the feeling of his prince’s hand in his. He leads the way into the mouth of the mine, a hand already going to the hilt of his sword.

The entrance opens up into a large cavern, several levels of the mine visible from their current location. Only the backs of the miners are visible, the sun behind them shining on their dirty clothes. To their right is a staircase hewn into the rock, a wooden fence marking out the edge. Chaol takes the steps gingerly, careful not to slip on any cave water that may have dripped down into the basins of the well-worn steps. The descent is dizzying, winding its way around the cave wall, the light of the sun slowly draining away. 

The sound of pickaxes against rock grows steadily louder until it is a quiet, persistent thrum in Chaol’s head, pulsing against his temples. He trains his eyes upon the ground, inadvertently gripping Dorian’s hand a little tighter. 

The stairs taper into the ground, and Chaol still feels residual dizziness from the descent. His head spins in the relative darkness, and he blinks several times to accustom his eyes to the dim light of the mines. 

Overseers’s whips lash against skin, and Chaol represses a horrified gasp. When he looks back at Dorian, the prince’s face is pale. 

“The sooner we get it over, the better,” he mutters. Already the sounds and atmosphere of the mines are beginning to get to him: he cannot tell how long they have been in Endovier for. 

Dorian swallows. “Indeed. The, uh — the chief overseer is in a small antechamber near the larger cavern.” He points over Chaol’s head, indicating lines of workers visible through the smaller connecting passageway. 

“Alright,” Chaol says, striding further into the mines. As he walks, he makes sure to don the mask of Prince Dorian’s Captain of Guards, a stern, yet honourable look that betrays no emotion. Behind him, Dorian drops Chaol’s hand in preparation for donning his own mask, that of a smug rich brat who believes he is above everyone and everything. Chaol feels a pang of sadness at the loss of the contact.

They reach the cavern at one of its lowermost levels, where the tang of salt and rock on Chaol’s nose is the strongest. Dorian’s eyes flick up to a warmly lit cavern, accessible through another set of stairs carved into the cavern wall, indirectly pointing out the way for Chaol.

“You first, my prince,” Chaol mutters in low tones. Dorian barely inclines his head in response, but grips the wood-and-chain railing all the same to ascend the stair.

Chaol cannot help but to glance down at the miners from his place upon the bridge: it turns his stomach to observe the whips and the chains used on the slaves in action, and yet he is willingly complicit in this— _torture_ , because there is truly no other word for it. Briefly, he wonders whether any of the slaves have ever attempted a revolt. Given the conditions they have to work in, he thinks that it is likely: however, it would have been covered up by the overseers, or would have escaped the notice of much of the nobility.

“We’re nearly there,” Dorian whispers back to him, and Chaol pulls himself from his reverie. He lifts the hood of his cloak to conceal his face, partly to hide the expressions of disgust that will surely flit across his face and partly to disguise himself.

As Dorian approaches the overseer’s seat, he throws his head back fancifully, further exposing the Havilliard sigil—a silver dragon, or wyvern, Chaol has never quite been sure of the difference between the two—upon his doublet. He stops in front of the overseer, a smirk already upon his face, and Chaol takes his place just behind Dorian, one hand on his sword and the other by the dagger on his thigh.

“Great Overseer,” Dorian declares, swooping into a mock bow, “it is I, Dorian Havilliard, here to grace your fine salt mine.”

He acts the part of the drunk blaggart well enough, Chaol has to admit, and were it not for the tension running through Dorian’s posture he might not be able to tell that Dorian is faking it.

A grunt emanates from the shape of the overseer. Chaol looks up from beneath his hood, already working out the possible threats that he may cause to Dorian. The man is old and fat, his clothes dirtied and worn. He looks like a middle-class man, one whose family fell in favour when they ceased to be lords and who now lords it over slaves instead of tenants. Guards stand by him, however, and exude silent malice.

“I have come here today to procure a Champion,” Dorian says with a grand wave of his hand. “I am sure we are all aware that you sequester the feared assassin Celaena Sardothien—” _oh, a nasty mispronounciation there, the more to add to the drunk facade_ , Chaol notes, “within your mines. And I am here to, shall we say, borrow her for a while.”

“No, you cannot have her.” The sound is guttural, as if the man is a mountain troll come to life. “Celaena Sardothien is _mine!_ ” Spittle flies from his mouth as he leans forward, some great anger within him being unleashed.

“I am Prince Dorian Havilliard.” Dorian’s snooty glance and the toss of his head in the air are both practiced mannerisms, yet they seem natural as anything else Dorian may do. “And you are?”

The overseer rises from his seat, veiny hands gripping the wooden arms of the chair. “Now listen, _Prince_ —”

He is interrupted by the sudden motion of a cloak being removed, the dark fabric fluttering to the ground and lying there. Long, golden hair is shaken out, rippling in waves over the person’s shoulders. They raise their head, and their lips are parted in a wicked smile.

“I think you’ll find, good sirs, that Celaena Sardothien belongs to nobody but herself.” Without the cloak concealing her, Chaol notices how incredibly thin Sardothien is, arms narrowed down and torso small. Still, Sardothien’s smile, bright white and promising terrors, remains as threatening as the legends said.

She pushes her hair away from her face, and Chaol is struck by shock. Sardothien’s eyes are bright blue, yes, exactly as he had been told. Around the pupil, however, is a distinctive ring of gold, of the sort only carried in the Ashryver bloodline.

And the Ashryver bloodline had been destroyed in the Ruin of Terrasen. At least, it was supposed to have been.

Who _is_ Celaena Sardothien, truly?

The assassin unsheathes one of her blades and flips it vertically, balancing it on the tip of her index finger. “And she chooses not to be in Endovier any longer.” She directs a knowing smile at Dorian. “Thanks for the opportunity, prince.”

Much to Chaol’s shock, Dorian returns it. “Miss Sardothien, if you would be so kind as to come with me...” He holds out his arm in a mockery of the customs for dancing.

Celaena steps forwards, stowing the blade in one of the sheathes littering her body, and loops her arm with Dorian’s. “My pleasure, Prince Dorian.” As she turns away, she gazes over her shoulder and tosses a smirk to the overseer, who has gone nearly milk-white and whose eyes are incredulous.

Chaol hurries after them as they leave, worry hastening his steps. His hood falls away from its position covering his head with his speed, revealing his face, but he ignores that fact.

He is sure that Dorian is making the biggest mistake of his life. Celaena Sardothien, an assassin with those distinct Ashryver eyes, is a mystery and an enigma who is better left unsolved. And while he knows of Dorian’s propensity for puzzles, he cannot help but think that this particular one will bring nothing but harm.

Celaena’s golden curls are washed out and paled, no doubt from lack of proper nutrition and sanitation. Her face when she turns to converse with Dorian is pale and withdrawn, her skull seeming to be visible through her skin. While she is beautiful, certainly, those thrice-damned Ashryver eyes and golden hair a combination that few could resist, clearly her time in Endovier has affected her physically. Perhaps mentally as well, for her under-eyes are dark and puffy, the kind that come from lack of sleep.

Although she is dangerous, a viper crawling through grass, Endovier has taken away her venom, left her with only the hope of death and the narrower hope of escape to depend upon. Chaol is struck by a pang of sympathy for Sardothien, and he finds himself relenting.

Celaena does not look at the slaves as she passes, her eyes fixed upon the ground. Even though Chaol is unable to see her face, he is sure that guilt at not being able to help them is no doubt running through her mind.

Chaol knows guilt all too well.

The prince and Celaena reach the base of the stair that Chaol had previously led Dorian down, and Aelin gazes up, up, up, seemingly bewitched by the swirl of the stair. She stumbles forwards, righting herself before she begins to ascend the stair. Dorian drops his arm, lets her walk alone.

As she grows smaller and smaller, she emerges into beam of sunlight, which catches on her hair, lighting it up as if she is emerging into sunrise from a long night spent in darkness. She stops on the stair, seemingly mesmerised by the sight of natural light.

“Come,” Dorian says, already moving towards the first step, and Chaol follows him. His legs ache from the intense climbing, but he keeps his complaints about the pain of the rigorous exercise in his mind. The weight of the heavy air of the mines, full of the tang of salt, seems to lessen as he gets further and further away from the cavern and towards the entrance. He casts his gaze down to the workers one more time, pity and anger for them filling his heart, then upwards.

Celaena takes the final few steps into the sunlight at a run, spins around in the entrance, disbelief on her face. She looks happy, joyous even, at leaving the mines.

Chaol breathes in the scent of the mountains, pine and flurries of snow filling his nose, at once calming him. He moves to untie the horses, Dorian following him to the tree where they have been tied up.

Casting a glance around to ensure that Sardothien is far enough away that she doesn’t hear them, Chaol takes Dorian’s collar to force him to look at him.

“I don’t know why you decided that you wanted Celaena Sardothien as your Champion,” Chaol hisses, “but I need you to swear to me that you won’t get involved should she turn out to not be... entirely what she seems.”

Dorian frowns, clearly confused. “How do you mean?”

“Did you not see her eyes?” Chaol asks. When Dorian shakes his head in reply, Chaol continues, “They’re Ashryver eyes, blue with a gold ring around the iris.”

Part of a realisation seems to flood Dorian’s eyes before he frowns, stubbornness evident in the jut of his jaw.

“Celaena’s business is her own, and I don’t see why that has anything to do with her being my champion.” Dorian reaches up to grasp Chaol’s wrist.

Chaol holds firm. “Promise me that you won’t get attached. She is your Champion, and your Champion only.”

It takes a moment, but Dorian acquiesces, nodding slowly. “I know, Chaol. I know.”

Chaol is certain that he does not know, not truly, but loosens his hand all the same and unties the horses, handing the reins of one to Dorian and taking the second horse to lead it down the slope. He leans back to halt it and offers the reins to Celaena Sardothien.

“Your horse,” he says, attempting to school his features into a smile.

Celaena beams, and takes the reins in one hand. She strokes the horse’s neck, pets its mane.

Chaol turns away, heading to fetch the second horse back. Dorian is already mounted, reins held securely in his grip, and Chaol swings himself into the saddle behind Dorian: Dorian grins over his shoulder, but otherwise doesn’t react.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk,” Chaol clicks his tongue at the horse, and it sets off into a walk. The assassin kicks her own mount into line with theirs, and they start off down towards Endovier, picking up speed into a trot, leaving the salt mines behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- aelin??? being badass *this* early???? hell yea  
> \- ive never been to a real salt mine and you can probably tell  
> \- but i have ridden horses and you can tell


	3. Chapter 2, 1463

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celaena, Dorian and Chaol are on their way to return to Rifthold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~did i need to make dorian and chaol ride on the same horse?? no. did i do it anyways?? yeah. this is just one of those things that is Entirely For My Own Pleasure~~
> 
> there is mention of food withholding/starvation in this chapter: celaena is used to being denied food by her previous masters at endovier & believes that this is normal. please read w/ caution if that is a possible trigger!

Celaena reins her horse into a stop, tugging at the braided leather. She grips the pommel of the saddle to keep secure as the path changes to a steep downwards angle. 

They have been riding hard for days, possibly even a week, stopping at towns along the way for nights at an inn. Celaena has always been separated from the prince and his guard, and for that she is grateful: it ensures that she finds the entire situation far easier.

However, their pace meant that she has had to become readjusted to riding quickly, and her legs and thighs are sore from the constant effort. Pangs of pain lance through them and she squeezes her legs tighter about her horse, nudging it forwards.

“We should emerge onto the main path to Rifthold after we descend this hill,” Chaol calls out from in front of her. Celaena nods, horse rocking gently underneath her.

She wears plain clothing bought from one of the stores they had passed along the way. The garments that had belonged to a slave had been given to the owner for usage as kindling. It had felt cathartic to leave them behind, as if she was shedding her identity as a slave and taking up the mantle of Celaena Sardothien once again. Even if the sleeve of her tunic slips down her arm, too large for her emaciated body. Even if she has to hoist her trousers up as they will not fit tightly enough around her waist.

From in front of her, Dorian makes a gesture, thumb against his first two fingers, to indicate to her that she should speed up. Celaena puts the heels of her shoes into the horse: she had stolen them from a noble who happened to be staying at one of the inns they had stopped at, and while they are fancifully decorated, they are also fit for purpose. 

Dorian slows his own horse’s pace, back resting against Chaol’s chest as they lean back into the saddle. Although it must have caused them some discomfort, with the saddle not being made for two people, neither of them have complained about their riding situation. Celaena pulls her horse in beside theirs so she can journey alongside them.

“We can’t name you my champion from the moment you arrive in Rifthold,” Dorian says. The glint of his blue eyes against the sun gives Celaena the impression that he has a plan for this situation which he thinks cunning. 

Celaena shrugs, choosing to play along with Dorian’s rhetorical problem. “Then what do we do, instead?”

A smile makes the corners of Dorian’s lips curve upwards. “You’re going to play my latest mistress.”

Chaol looks shocked by this idea. “My prince, I—”

Dorian turns his head to Chaol and waves his hand dismissively. “It’s going to be perfect. Nobody will suspect that I hired an assassin as my Champion, and nobody will suspect that my supposed new mistress will have anything to do with it.”

Chaol’s shock abates a little, yet he still frowns at the prospect. “You are suggesting we make her seem as though she is two different people.”

“No, this is the beauty of it. Upon the surface, it will look like she is my mistress, but we will unveil her in the competition under the same identity. As far as they know, Celaena Sardothien will still be slaving away in Endovier.”

Celaena snorts at the idea. “Anyone will be able to tell that I’m Celaena. My fighting style is distinctive.”

“Then we hide the fact until we can’t hide it any longer. See? It’s a perfect plan.”

The furrow in Chaol’s brow lessens, and he seems to come around to the plan. “She’ll still need a fake name, though.” 

Dorian runs a hand over his chin in thought. “Something middle-class-like. Not nobility, but not peasantry either. Delilah? Anna? Elizabeth? Too fancy. Lillian?”

“I like Lillian,” Celaena speaks up.

“Lillian it is, then.” Dorian looks inordinately proud of his choice.

“What about last name?” Chaol adds. “We need something that won’t tie her down to a family.”

“Gordaina,” Dorian says, thoughtfully. “There’s so many families with that name that I don’t think any of them would be able to tell that she’s not one of theirs.” 

“Lillian Gordaina,” Celaena says, testing out the name. It feels like slipping into a newly bought pair of clothes, at first uncomfortable and ill-fitting. She rolls it around her tongue, repeating it again. “It’ll suit,” she shrugs.

The ground beneath them continues to slope downwards, horses plodding beneath them. Celaena finds herself threading her fingers through her horse’s mane, tugging at stray pieces of hay in it and pulling them aside. The sun is high, nearly midday, and the horse’s neck is warm and sweaty. A light breeze occasionally sweeps Celaena’s hair about her face, tangling it and pushing it into her face. Celaena takes one hand off the reins to tuck it behind her ears. Her hair is long, thick and unkempt from Endovier, and when she runs her fingers through it she dislodges dirt. When she reaches the castle, a bath should be her first order of business, to clean herself of the dirt and the remaining stench of the salt mines.

The hill begins to flatten out, the horse’s steps becoming steadier. Celaena sits further upwards in the saddle, her back shooting pain from the change of position. She looks down between her horse’s ears and sees the grass of the hill, parched yellow from the sun and too little water, give way to a wide road, spacious enough that two carriages could fit alongside without one running off the road.

It is empty for the moment, and Celaena assumes that the majority of travellers have stopped for lunch, which allows them to travel unseen by passerbys. When her horse steps onto the road, its shoes begin to clack loudly against the stone. The noise drills into Celaena’s head, so familiar to the repetitive chip of pickaxes against an unyielding stone wall. She closes her eyes, squeezing them tightly, fingering the braided leather of the reins and digging her fingers into the horse’s mane to remind herself that she is no longer in Endovier.

The horse’s shoes continue onwards, clack-clack-clack.

Celaena forces her eyes open, pulls at the horse’s mane. Strips of its mane come away in her hand, and Celaena stares at them, horrified.

The horse that carries the prince and his guard has stopped ahead of her and turned sideways. Chaol is making to dismount, his leg beginning to slide over the horse’s rump. Celaena kicks her boots into the horse’s side in a rapid series of touches, making it leap into a trot to approach the others’ horse faster. The feeling of the trot is different: harder, more jarring.

“What was that about?” Dorian calls from atop his horse. As she approaches, jerkily pulling the reins to slow the horse, she notices that his brow is wrinkled in anger. Celaena resists the urge to turn her horse and flee, reminding herself that the prince, while he may be more powerful in status than her, has no whip with which to lash her back until it bleeds.

Still, she dips her head, chastised. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

Dorian frowns, clearly still suspicious, but thankfully, he repositions the horse and spurs it into a walk again. Celaena is content to ride along beside.

Her stomach is starting to grumble by the time that more travellers have begun to fill the road. Celaena ignores it, having undergone the same pangs of hunger before, in Endovier, and not having them sated. They draw several curious eyes, Celaena in her mismatched outfit and dirtied state a particular interest. Chaol frowns after the third person, mounted on a golden horse, who stares at Celaena as he passes by, and unclasps the cloak from around his neck, handing it to Celaena across the gap between their horses. Celaena accepts it with a trembling hand and uses her free hand to pull it over her shoulders and clasp it together with the heavy golden brooch that is pinned on the cloak. Chaol gestures at her to pull up the hood to hide her hair, and Celaena obeys, tucking her thicker of hair over her shoulders and fitting the hood over it. It drops down over her eyes, too large for her, and Celaena shifts it about until she can see properly.

A building comes into view, and as they approach Celaena is able to faintly make out the sign hanging out front: The Glass Tavern. Her stomach rumbles at the scent of food from inside, yet she keeps quiet, sure that they will ride on and she will be bereft of sustenance.

“Dorian,” she hears Chaol say in a voice that is barely above a murmur, “she hasn’t eaten since the morning.”

“All right, then,” she hears Dorian reply, her field of vision limited by the fabric of the cloak, “we’ll stop for a meal and a drink. Make sure that you keep her away from prying eyes, though.”

“Yourself, as well, Prince.” Chaol cautions.

Dorian makes a grab for the reins of her horse, pulling her up short. “My lady,” he says, “we will be stopping at this fine establishment for food and a drink. You must keep yourself covered up, though.”

Celaena nods, barely daring to believe it. Not only are they stopping for food, they are allowing her a portion too! The nicety seems like a trick, but her hunger is so great that she accepts.

Once they turn off the road and into the tavern’s yard, stopping their horses, they dismount, and she ties her horse at a post, next to the other horse. It whickers softly, pushing at the hood of her cloak, its warm breath against her cheek.

“I’ll find you some sugar cubes, or something,” she promises, stroking the side of its head. The horses have been fed oats sparingly on the journey, and the animal’s hunger echoes hers.

Her boots sink into the soil of the yard, softened by many pairs of boots before hers. The smell of food emanates from the tavern door, which has been wedged open using a large rock. Chaol is the first one inside, and over Dorian’s shoulder she sees him scanning the smoky inside of the tavern for an empty table.

Chaol turns back to Dorian and her. “There’s a free table in the far corner. You two go sit at it, and I’ll buy something.” He withdraws a small bag, presumably filled with coin, from his belt, and makes for the bar. Dorian looks vaguely fearful before he enters, a learned confidence filling his steps as he navigates through the haphazard arrangement of tables and into the darkened back corner, settling into one of the chairs and leaning back with a noticeable sigh of relief.

“So,” Dorian says, idly twisting his fingers together on the table, “Celaena Sardothien.”

“Don’t say it too loud,” she hisses, eyes flicking about the tavern over her shoulder. “Anyone could hear.”

“Relax, we’re far enough removed from the crowds that they won’t hear us. Besides, I don’t think they would pay much attention to us anyways.”

The last part seems true enough: the majority of the tavern’s occupants are at the bar, bickering over mugs of ale. Chaol is a tall, dark figure, clad in light body armour and finer clothes in comparison to them, who are backlit by oil lamps and in the garb of peasantry, as he walks up to the bar.

She hears a sigh being let out beside her, and spins on her chair to see Dorian knuckling his forehead, head dropped to the table. Celaena taps him between the shoulder blades, lightly at first, then more firmly.

Dorian raises his head, a flush dancing on his cheeks visible even in the dim light. “Sorry,” he says, clearly embarrassed.

Celaena shakes her head at that, sending her long, messy hair across her face. “I’m supposed to say sorry, not you.” The mere concept of apologies from a superior is odd to her—she still has memories of crying out “ _sorry, sorry!_ ” as the whip scythed across her back in Endovier, and before that, a “sorry” said to Arobynn, her head bowed in shame.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It is I who is at fault,” Dorian states darkly, and Celaena wonders why Dorian, the prince of Adarlan, considers himself to be at fault.

Their conversation is interrupted when Chaol returns, three bread rolls wrapped in rough cloth gathered in his hands. He drops them onto the surface of the table and mutters about returning with the ales.

Celaena waits to allow Dorian to take all of the food, but the prince leans back in his chair and waves for her to take one.

“Oh no, I can’t,” she says hurriedly. “You are to eat before me.”

He frowns. “I’m giving you the first choice. Take one.” His tone is gently commanding, and Celaena hesitantly obliges, unwrapping the roll nearest to her. It’s burned along one side, but otherwise it looks plenty edible. Gingerly, she bites off a small piece, certain that Dorian will change his mind and require her to hand over the roll the next moment. When nobody chastises her for it, she takes a second, slightly larger bite, relishing sinking her teeth into the food.

Several mugs land with a heavy impact on the table, and Celaena looks up to see Chaol’s shadowed face as he sits down in the seat opposite Dorian’s, the wood scratching the stone floor audibly as he does so. There are three ales, and presumably Dorian and Chaol are offering the third to her. She uses a stealthy hand to pull the mug across the table and closer to her. Chaol frowns. “Why are you doing that? It’s yours.”

“It is?” she questions. “I can take it?”

“Neither me nor Dorian will drink it. Take it,” Chaol reiterates, sliding it towards her.

“If you’re sure,” Celaena says, fingers curling around the handle and raising it to her lips. The top of the ale is foamy, but when she takes a sip the actual liquid turns out to be thin and watery. She is thirsty, though, exceptionally so, and therefore she swallows it down with hardly any complaints. It is warm going down her throat, but doesn’t burn and sting her eyes, unlike some other ales that she has drunk.

Celaena eats her roll in several deep bites, hunger from the meagre meals that she’s had on their journey and the deeper hunger that seems to always be with her after eating barely anything in her one and— _Gods_ , how many years had she spent there?—a half years in Endovier. She empties out her mug of ale in several swigs, the liquid and food restoring some of her constitution. Although she still doesn’t feel sated—doubts she ever will—it is good enough for now.

When she announces that she will be going outside to tend to the horses, neither of the two men raises an eyebrow. Celaena is shocked for a moment—letting her out of their sight would provide a prime opportunity for her to run away—but recovers herself and kicks her chair back from the table.

As she exits the tavern, a bluster of wind makes the hood of her cloak fall down. She considers pulling it back up, but decides against it: the wind would simply push it down again, and it is unlikely that anyone will recognise her as Celaena Sardothien with her changed appearance.

She hasn’t dared to look into a mirror, but from feeling her face she knows that her cheeks have retreated into her face, her features are more gaunt and stand out from her face, and that the colour has mostly disappeared from her skin and hair. She looks more like an old woman than a young one, truth be told.

Celaena goes to the horses, loosening their girths further. She struggles to tug at the leather and buckles, but by working at it with her fingers to gradually untighten it, she manages to give the horses breathing room. Puffs of steam rise from their noses into the air, and Celaena runs a hand down the horse’s head. It nuzzles into her hand, and she cannot resist smiling.

Celaena peers inside the saddlebags, seeing that their supplies of sugared oats are running low. She sets off at some pace between a run and a walk to find more, passing empty stables on the side of the tavern and reaching the stores. Looking around and seeing nobody, she opens the door, wincing at the creak of rusted hinges, and steps inside. The inside smells musty and vaguely like pipe-smoke, but Celaena finds a sack of oats in the corner. Scooping up several handfuls, she hip-checks the door back open and carries them across the yard, attempting not to drop too much as she does so. The flap of the saddlebag has remained open, and she tilts her hands to tip the oats inside the bag, watching as it slowly fills up. Once one handful has been depleted, she moves to the other horse and does the same, buckling shut the saddlebag after it is filled.

Celaena pats the horse’s flank as she walks back out from inbetween them, and her palm comes away sweaty. A metal pail, the handle bent badly out of shape, rests on the ground at the end of the series of stalls. Hurrying towards it, Celaena attempts to pick it up, yet it resists her tries to grasp it and heave it off the ground. It is full of muddied water and blades of grass float inside it, but Celaena knows the horses won’t mind the muck. She presses her hands to either side of the pail and manages to lift it, shocked by how much her strength has been depleted by Endovier. The repetitive motions of swinging a pickaxe into rock had meant that her other muscles had been neglected, and thus Celaena realised that she would need to train hard when she was in Rifthold. Carrying the pail above her feet, hair dripping into it and the smell of mud in her face, she returns to the horses and deposits it in front of them. She unties the horses’s reins to allow them to drop their heads to drink, and they lap at the water with relish.

Holding the reins, Celaena wonders why she hasn’t taken her chance and run away yet. The tavern is in the countryside: were she to wait out the search in an abandoned house or some other refuge, she could be free of Dorian’s ‘Champion’ business and able to make a new life.

However, Celaena recoils at the idea of it. No matter how appealing she tries to make the thought of a cottage in the countryside, her mind is still inevitably drawn back to Rifthold, and the mysterious past of hers that Arobynn had subtly hinted at. He had never said it to her directly, but Celaena knew that the first eight years of her life had not, in fact, been spent with Arobynn. Little things, like a reference to how she was growing up to look so like her mother. Or how her temper was as fiery as her father’s. In a way, those were worse than whatever horrible secret her past held: those small portions caught Celaena’s imagination, led her to invent all sorts of strange scenarios. More than anything, Celaena realises, she wants to see her parents again. And that could only happen if she returned to Rifthold, and to the man there who had played such a crucial role in her life: Arobynn Hamel, lord of the underworld.

She is drawn from her reverie by shouts from across the yard: looking up, she sees a man being thrown out of the door, and behind the windows the shapes of men brawling.

Celaena tugs the nearest horse’s head upwards, rallying it to attention. Its ears prick up, flicking at the air.

Her fingers feel slippery and inconsistent as she tugs at the girth, struggling to pull it upwards. Manhandling the saddle onto her shoulder, she turns sideways and yanks _hard_ , causing the buckle to slide into place and the girth to tighten. With a relieved sigh, Celaena pats the saddle down and back into place, and moves to her own horse, working at the girth to tighten it. She fits two fingers in between the horse and the fabric of the girth, tugs. It holds firm and taut around her fingers.

A glass bottle shatters against the tavern door, pieces falling to the ground. Celaena sees Chaol and Dorian leaving the inn, Chaol with an arm drawn above the back of his head in protection. She fits her foot into the stirrup, grabs onto the pommel of the saddle to pull herself up and onwards. It takes her several tries, but she manages to get onto the horse and sit comfortably. She gathers up the reins of her horse as she watches Chaol and Dorian attempt to get on, noises of the bar fight still emanating from the tavern.

Both are panting heavily by the time they finally manage to get into the saddle. Celaena quirks her eyebrow in a question, and Chaol, flushed with exertion, nods back.

She presses her heels lightly into her horse’s sides, and tossing its head up, it sets off into a walk, which quickly becomes a trot with several flicks of her heel. They turn out of the tavern yard, the ground changing from mud into stone, and the horses’ hooves rap against the road.

Celaena lets out an exhilarated breath through her teeth and sits back into the motion of the trot. She swears she can see the glimmer of the Glass Castle of Adarlan in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. it is clearly unrealistic that dorian and chaol would immediately trust celaena. and here, they don’t. “but what about the conversation?” i hear you say. about that. it’s a necessary conversation because walking into rifthold with celaena would immediately show dorian’s hand in this particular card game. so they need a disguise.  
> disclaimer i didn’t actually do any research on common names around this time & just made up my own. the gordainas in this universe used to be nobility before their bloodline was increasingly bastardised about 100-150 yrs before 1463 & they eventually got kicked out of the nobility due to this and became middle class. many of the gordainas’ illegitimate children went on to have children of their own thus making the name widespread.  
> anyways, i'm rambling. dorian and chaol don't trust celaena, but they are attempting to gain her confidence here b/c they want to be sure that she won’t slit their throats while they sleep (she doesn’t have any weapons currently, chaol took them that first night) when they are in rifthold. idk anything about roads in adarlan circa this time, but neither does sjm, and not many people seem to mind that.  
> also it never made sense to me that dorian took an entire encampment to retrieve one (1) prisoner, so i changed it to be just dorian and chaol who travelled to get her.  
> also, guys, do not put two fully grown men on a horse unless it is a heavy horse, like the ones that pull carts etc. it may happen in fantasy, but it WILL not work in real life. trust me. i ride horses in my spare time. 
> 
> if u wanna leave comments/kudos feel free! i'd love to hear what u thought.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are the fuel that feeds the writing fire!


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